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When was the last time Agatha had gone out on a date?
She is running her own PR firm, and her business is flourishing; she barely has the time to date. If I remember correctly, the last time she went out with somebody was a year ago.
I wonder who this guy is and why she didn’t mention him yesterday when she stopped by my office.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and grab my keys and wallet.
Throwing my coat over my shoulder, I pick up my jacket, tuck my helmet under my arm, and stride out, my feelings a little conflicted at the image that Agatha threw my way.
I don’t want to imagine her naked.
With her soft blonde hair falling over bare porcelain skin, those pretty blue eyes that are surrounded by long dark lashes, looking at me like—
I freeze.
This is Agatha! I can’t think of my best friend’s sister like that.
However, as I make my way to the garage, I cannot help but be agitated.
My feelings for Agatha have always been complicated. Growing up around her, I used to flirt with her teasingly. It had become our thing: just light, casual flirting that never meant anything.
I force my feet to move and make my way to the garage. Nodding to the watchman, I tug on my leather jacket and run a hand over my Harley. The bike is my pride and joy. Putting on my helmet, I swing one leg over the side and blank my mind of all thoughts of Agatha.
The bike roars to life, and I don’t miss the envious look the watchman sends my way before I speed off.
It is still pretty early, and I know that I’d just go home and brood myself to death over why Agatha going out on a date with some random guy has me so worked up. So, turning the bike around, I decide to swing by home and surprise my parents.
I was adopted into the Sawyer family, but not once had Ann and Raymond Sawyer made me feel like I was not blood. Even now, as I park my motorcycle in the garage of my parents’ upscale home, I hear my mother’s cry of happiness as she sees me through the kitchen window.
“Ian!”
My mother is a petite woman with strawberry-blonde hair and wide, welcoming figure. Even though I am a fully-grown man in his early thirties, I am not ashamed to say that my mother gives the best hugs.
As she wraps her arms around me and kisses my cheek, I find a warmth spreading inside me. “Hi, Mom.”
“Where have you been?” she demands, wiping her hands on her apron. “We missed you last Sunday. The barbeque went great!”
My father is reading the newspaper, and he waggles his brows at me in greeting. “Your cousin, Samantha, brought an inflatable pool. Your brothers filled it with Jell-O.”
“Oh,” I sit down at the round kitchen table, next to him. “Where are they?”
“Grounded,” my father says, sourly. “They slipped out last night to go with their friends to that horror movie marathon that’s playing in the cinema. They were stupid enough to get caught.”
My mother grins, setting down a plate of pasta in front of me. “I was doing some writing when I caught them sneaking out. Thought they could outwit me.”
My phone pings and I see that it is a picture from Jake and Sam at the movies, and I smirk. “You sure showed them, Mom.”
“So, what brings you here?” my dad asks, folding his newspaper and giving me an intent look.
I shrug. “I just wanted to surprise you guys.”
My mother runs a hand over my hair, giving my small ponytail a disapproving look, making my shoulders hunch in defiance. “I wish you’d let me cut your hair, Ian.”
My hands fly to my hair.
“C’mon, Mom! The ladies love it.” When my mother raises a brow at me, I give her my most charming smile and wrap my arms around her waist. “No touching my hair.”
She lets out a disappointed sigh and runs her hands over the deep red of my hair, inherited from the parents I’ve never met. “Fine. Now, tell me what’s bothering you.”
